


Laudate Solanum

by FixaIdea



Series: London Fog [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Enjolras, Canon Era, Character Death, Comedy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, emotional whiplash effect, retconned as such because in the later installments he was written as such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Enjolras is allowed to have his little secrets... Or maybe not if you ask the rest of Les Amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laudate Solanum

1829, Paris

To say that Enjolras, Bahorel and Courfeyrac weren’t having a good time would have been the understatement of the century. They were crammed into a tiny, cold, damp attic, have been for hours now.

‘Damn it’ snapped Bahorel at the Universe at large ‘Those bloody flyers weren’t even proper propaganda! Who knew this innocent little affair would piss them off so much?’

‘We did.’ said Courfeyrac crossly ‘Should have anyway. We’ve been over the risks on our last meeting. Were you even paying attention at all?’

Somewhat cowed, Bahorel attempted to manoeuvre himself into a more comfortable position. A couple of missing tiles let them know that the light outside was fading.

‘How long are we goin’to sit around here?’

‘Till Prouvaire comes and gets us. There’s no other way for us to know it’s safe outside. We’ve been over this too.’

Getting tired of Courfeyrac’s ire Bahorel turned to Enjolras. The man has been unusually silent, even by his standards, and was currently staring at the far wall with a grave expression.

‘What are you scowling at like this?’ Bahorel asked, nudging him.

Enjolras merely shook his head.

‘Oh, come on!’

‘You’re better off not knowing’ murmured Enjolras.

At that Courfeyrac bent forward to look at him too.

‘Look, if it’s something important, you’d better tell us anyway.’

‘It’s not important.’

‘So it’s personal? Spit it out, Enjolras, whatever it is, it’s obviously bothering you!’

‘Like I said. It’s unimportant, but knowing it could hurt you.’

‘Now you’re scaring me! Come on, out with it, Enjolras I – ‘

‘Baked potatoes.’

Courfeyrac and Bahorel blinked.

‘What.’

‘Baked potatoes, it’s all I can focus on!’

Silence. Unfortunately Enjolras took it as a cue to continue.

‘Beautiful, golden stuffed potatoes…’ he sighed, leaning back against the wall ‘The gardener’s wife used to make them and always gave me some when she saw me running about. You boil the potatoes, slice them in half, and scoop out their middle. You mix that with bacon, ground cheese, onion, butter, salt and herbs, and stuff it right back where it came from. You sprinkle them with some more cheese and bake them just long enough for it to melt.’

He sighed again.

‘If the gods exist this is what they must be eating. I can’t force myself to think about anything else right now.’

A deep, long silence fell on them. It was finally broken by a drawn-out grumble of Courfeyrac’s stomach, followed by Bahorel’s deep, solemn voice.

‘I think I’m going to kill you.’

***

1832, London

Grantaire was starting to get worried. While downplaying or even flat out ignoring his own emotions was fairly commonplace for Enjolras his current behaviour was starting to become completely absurd.

It’s been months since they fled France after the failed insurrection – and while Bahorel’s was the only confirmed death they had no idea what became of the others. And of course they had no chance to return to France in the foreseeable future.

Grantaire grieved. He wailed and cried and punched the wall – but eventually he settled down, and helped Enjolras with setting up their new life in England. Enjolras, who withdrew into himself completely. He went about his business, never shedding a tear, never showing a silver of emotion, and hardly talking unless completely necessary.

To an outsider it must have seemed like the events of June didn’t even affect him at all. Grantaire knew this couldn’t be true. Enjolras loved his friends and loved his homeland, and therefore had to be in an unbelievable amount of pain right now. Even thinking about it made Grantaire’s heart clench.

He’s tried to show him his support by being useful – and it did earn him some sombre respect, but didn’t help soothe Enjolras. He had to comfort him somehow, or at least show that he cared – but how? Despite his cold exterior, Enjolras was a tactile man, often seen linking arms with Combeferre, holding hands with Prouvaire, or clapping others on the arm. So maybe a nice hug would have helped – if it came from Courfeyrac. Enjolras and Grantaire have never been close enough for such affection, and springing it on the man now would probably earn him a punch.

If not physical comfort, then what? When R himself was upset he usually drank or went to find Joly and Bossuet to drink with them – obviously out of the question. Little gifts? No way.

Grantaire frowned. When he was a child his grandma always made him quiche – his favourite – when he was sad.

There’s a thought. Although he’d had to know what Enjolras’ favourite food was.

…But he did, didn’t he? One evening after a meeting, Bahorel, nearly choking on his own laughter told all Les Amis that what little part of their leader’s heart wasn’t full of Patria was dedicated to the humble baked potato. Enjolras went beet red, but he made no attempt to deny it.

So, stuffed, baked potato it was! Bless Enjolras and his relatively simple taste – this meal wouldn’t put much of a strain even on their limited budget. And who knows, even if Bahorel’s anecdote wasn’t true after all, maybe even his Marble Leader would notice the change in at least the spicing after surviving for so long on the bland, tasteless fish and chips the English have for street food.

 A quick trip to the market and an hour or so of puttering about in the kitchen later Grantaire was carefully laying out his freshly baked potatoes on a tray, when he heard the front door open.

He ran out to greet his companion, grinning with excitement.

‘Welcome home, oh Fearless Leader, you’re just in time to get your treat!’

‘…Treat?’ Enjolras frowned, visibly confused.

‘Come in, come in, you’ll see!’

Grantaire all but dragged him to the kitchen, and gestured at the steaming pile of potatoes.

‘All yours, my dear!’

Enjolras stood stock still, making no sound. Grantaire’s smile faded. Did he even like it? Oh no, he’s pulling a face, he definitely doesn’t like it… Or wait. _Wait_. _Is his chin trembling?_

‘Do you not like it?’

‘I love it’ said Enjolras favouring him with a smile, brilliant despite the tears gathering in his eyes ‘It's so thoughtful of you, thank you! It’s only that Bahorel used to tease me endlessly about liking these and…’

And Bahorel was no more.

Grantaire stepped closer and carefully pulled him into an embrace. He went without protest, hiding his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. For a while Enjolras’ wet, hitching breath was the only sound between them. Grantaire stood patiently rocking him a little back and forth.

When he finally cried his fill, Grantaire pressed a small kiss to his temple and murmured into his ear:

‘Come, let us eat these in his memory.’

‘And eat them quickly!’ Enjolras said, drawing back, smiling at Grantaire ‘It would be a crime to let these beauties go cold and all your hard work be in vain!’

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was written WAY before the rest of the series, and reading it again, I realise that in this one they are living in a much nicer flat than they do in the beginning of The Fog Rises. Let's just assume that when their money was starting to run out they moved to a smaller, cheaper one.


End file.
